Is Becky offended when I call her The Bohunk?
In the way-back years of the 20th century, Bohunk was a derogatory ethnic slur, used in the tolerant and welcoming USA to refer to immigrants from Central and Eastern Europe. Most don’t know there was a kingdom called Bohemia, now part of the Czech Republic. That’s where Becky’s paternal relatives immigrated from more than 100 years ago.
Sometimes, friends call me “The Swede.” Ancestors on my paternal side immigrated from Sweden early in the last century. The last week of July earned me a new moniker, “The Dumb Swede.” I’m not offended to share the story of how I came by it.
A couple of weeks ago, I explained our decision to leave the woods of Cook County for the bustling metropolis of Duluth. Moving is something a 70-something couple should avoid, for their health and relationship, even those who did the Swedish Death Cleaning since the start of the year. The last weekend of July, the hottest weekend of the summer, we officially moved. The heat is just one of the reasons for my new moniker.
July 25 found me at the U-Haul dealer, Temperance Traders, in Schroeder, MN. The paperwork showed I was charged for 105 miles, the distance from Schroeder to my dropoff in Proctor, MN. Getting to our house on Kelly’s Hill was 82 miles round-trip, and I still had the 105 miles to Proctor. As it happens, when I returned the truck on Saturday, the dropoff point was between two major road construction projects—detours, and more miles galore.
The Friday loading of the truck went reasonably well. The Bohunk and I handled the boxes, and the heir apparent of our little family helped load the pieces of furniture we were taking. Closing the truck and heading to bed that night, I planned to be on the road early the next day—the first dumb thing of moving weekend. I had everything secured to the door of the truck.
Saturday morning, I needed to rearrange the load to make room for more items and load some of it in the car that would carry The Bohunk and our animals.
The clincher for the Dumb Swede award showed up almost a week later. Those of you on Medicare know that an annual physical is paid for, 100%. For me, it is time to get prescriptions renewed for the drugs that keep my blood pressure reasonable and my cholesterol at a safe level, along with the durable medical equipment that allows me to appear somewhat agreeable in public.
Doctor Jenny has done my annual Medicare physical at Sawtooth Mountain Clinic for the past six years. This year, my appointment is August 18, and I hope to peacefully cruise up the shore on Highway 61, get poked, prodded, lectured, and be home in Duluth for supper.
The orders for labwork that the clinic sent me in late June were for the lab at North Shore Health, adjacent to the clinic in Grand Marais. The testing needed to be finished at least a week before the physical. I don’t mind five hours of driving to get the physical, but five hours is excessive for a five-minute blood sucking jab.
In past years, in different places, we had labs in strip malls with names like Quest Diagnostics and LabCorp, where you could walk in with your paper orders, and depending on the crowd, be in and out in minutes. Living in Cook County, the proximity of the lab and clinic caused me to forget about those options.
Thinking I’d find a lab close to me on the Duluth/Proctor line, I turned to Gemini, my Google AI buddy. I asked, “Where can I find a lab to do blood tests for my upcoming physical, near me?”
Proving that artificial intelligence might not be so intelligent, Gemini gave me a list of several labs here in Duluth. One on the list is defunct. I tried the next one, Pace Labs. The professional-sounding receptionist who answered my call listened politely as I rattled off that I needed bloodwork done for my doctor in Grand Marais. Since I won’t be there before the appointment on the 18th, I’d need a local lab to do the work. “Do I need an appointment with your lab?” I finally finished my spiel.
Her response, “We provide environmental testing services,” was a hilarious twist in my quest for a lab.
Laughing, I apologized for interrupting her day and wished her a mirthful afternoon, telling co-workers, “You won’t believe the dumb call I answered today.”
So, I find myself crowned the Dumb Swede.
(There are plenty of other tales from the move, tune in next week.)
